


Breathless

by BehindBrokenWindows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic John, Angst, Dark, Hyperventilating, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Nightmares, Self-Hatred, almost fainting, not a father, poor sherlock doesn't know what to do, what about Rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 12:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10719153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindBrokenWindows/pseuds/BehindBrokenWindows
Summary: Whatever he might say, John isn't ok. It is what it is, that doesn't mean it's good. And he isn't being truthful to Sherlock, who is just trying to help as best he can but at a loss of what to do.





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> This can be seen as a sequel to another one-shot of mine - 'Back to Baker Street', but it isn't necessary to have read that one to read this.

At first is was just a bit of moaning. Shuffling in the sheets. Skin heating until pearls of sweat trickled down temples.

Loud breathing filled the room, every breath faster and more desperate than the last.

Then the whimpers. Head unconsciously buried in the pillow.

He was begging, soft noises slipping past wet lips. _Please, God, make it stop_.

There was a sharp intake of breath, muscles tensing, a solitary whimper into the cold room.

Twisting, turning, and the sense of running but never leaving the spot.

A terrorised scream cut through air that was too empty, too stale. Bouncing off the walls in a room that was too cold, but not cold enough to keep the sweat at bay.

Then there was another scream. A smaller one, shrill and loud. It was a crying scream. A girl's scream.

And then John bolted upright in bed and _gasped_ because the air was too thin and the memories too vivid and the child too small and too fragile and _screaming_ like she wanted to rip her lungs from her chest but John _couldn't do anything_. And his head was fussy and he couldn't breathe.

The door was wrenched open and bounced off the wall and the screaming got louder and first now did John notice that he was hyperventilating.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and for the first time he didn't know what to do because both Watsons were desperate for his attention but he couldn't help them at the same time because the one would only further upset the other.

He went for the baby, and approached the father, but the man waved him away.

But John _couldn't breathe_ , he would choke on his own desperate intakes of breath so Sherlock was undecided. But the baby didn't stop and the never-ending gasps of the father hurt Sherlock to the very core of his being, and so it seems was the effect on the daughter because she was wailing, arms flailing.

"Breathe, John! I'll be right back!"

But John couldn't breathe. He could only taste the sweet burn of oxygen on his tongue before it was cruelly ripped back out of him with a force that shook his being.

His vision turned black around the edges, sparks flying in front of his eyes. All he could feel of his arms was the prickling of stars dying. His head was swimming and he was so desperate for breath that they fought each other on the way in only to block his airways and deny him all relief.

The world was spinning, he couldn't keep his eyes open and he was falling but unfeeling and his arms weren't there anymore and the feeling in his thighs were fading.

Then Sherlock's voice was back in his ear but he couldn't focus on it. He couldn't pinpoint it. Was it actually there? Maybe it was only the last, desperate alarm bell ringing in his mind that it was _too late_.

"John, John, John, John, John..." it became a chant, almost a lullaby. "John, look at me!" Distantly, he felt fingers on his face, turning his head. "Breathe into the bag, John. Fill it up. Slowly now, slowly..."

~*~*~

John was sitting on the sofa with his elbows on his knees, arms stretched out as if he was reaching for something, but he wasn't. Or maybe that was the desperate call for sanity.

He was breathing, he was floating on air. Shaking. Like a leaf in the wind. Fragile, undecided, no control. His eyes were wide. He would never close them again, never see that again, printed on the back of his eyelids.

Sherlock was in his chair, rocking Rosie in his arms. She wasn't screaming, almost sleeping.

Mrs Hudson placed a cup of tea and some biscuits in front of him. It was night outside, she was in her nightie, hair in every possible direction, looking at John with such motherly pity and affection. He didn't want it.

"I need something stronger," he croaked. "At the back, in the cupboard over the sink."

"John..." He silenced Sherlock with a look.

"But John," Mrs Hudson begged, "is that responsible?" John laughed, but it was dry over his chapped lips, devoid of humour.

"Responsible? No, no Mrs Hudson, it's not responsible. Now, if you please." He was cold, crisp, he took all the air in the room and he took all the warmth and he made it disappear until Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably in his chair.

Mrs Hudson put the drink loudly in front of John and vacated the room. He downed it in three rapid gulps and let his head fall into his hands, crouched over himself.

He was still shaking. His eyelids were burning. It was so hot, too hot, and moisture formed...

The cushion beside him dipped with the weight of Sherlock, and the detective held Rosie in his arms, extended towards John.

"No, no Sherlock, don't you see? You have to get her away, put her back. She can't be here." His voice broke. While Sherlock put Rosie back in her bed in John's room, John refilled his glass and downed the half of it in one go, then settled on the sofa with the rest. His face was hot, the rest of him shaking from cold and fear and bad things.

"John -" Sherlock's voice was asking allowance, and John nodded stiffly, once. The detective's long body was beside him again. "How often?" he asked. _Nightmares_.

"First time since... since..." He didn't need to explain. Sherlock knew.

"Really?" He didn't believe him, John would just have to prove it.

"Yeah, _really_ , Sherlock. 'cuz it's the first time I haven't drunk before I went to sleep, that's why." Sherlock stiffened, and didn't respond for a long while.

"But you said -"

"I know what I _fucking said_ , Sherlock!" The detective flinched, but John just shook his head. "Can't you see? She can't be here. I can't _keep_ her, I'll fuck up, I'll... It doesn't work, Sherlock, I'm not cut for this!" He had to draw a deep breath again, begging the oxygen to enter his lungs. It was struggling horribly, but John won in the end, and shakily, breath filled him and something welled in his eyes. It was hot and wet and he didn't want it to slip, but it did and Sherlock saw and there was nothing John could do but feel the burn down his cheeks and down the rest of the liquor and throw the glass to the other end of the sofa.

Then long arms circled John and he knew he didn't deserve it. He knew the miracle beside him was too good, too deserving, but _fuck that_ , because he needed that bloody miracle, and it might be selfish of him to indulge but he didn't fucking care.

"It _will_ be alright, John." He sounded so bloody sure, but John knew it was rubbish because it was never fucking alright. The word itself was an insult. Nothing was alright, and it _wouldn't_ be alright.

So he leaned back into the cushions, Sherlock's arms still around him, drew his legs up and hid in the detective's chest. Then he cried till he emptied and laid down on the couch, letting Sherlock drape a blanket over him.

He didn't deserve it, he didn't fucking deserve any of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Anybody who has hyperventilated or fainted before? What did you think of my description? I have done both and tried to get the description as accurate as possible - did this seem real to you?
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated, thank you so much for reading!


End file.
